


The Other Side

by Klauinax



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Baltimore Crabs (Blaseball Team)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 23:41:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30029661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klauinax/pseuds/Klauinax
Summary: Searching for Love in all the wrong placesOr: A summary of season 12 from someone who used to be on the inside.
Kudos: 14





	The Other Side

He could no longer remember the faces that walked into the stadium.

Valentine Games had been a lot. He was a Taco, he had been a Jand, a Mill, a Spy. But... he had also been a Crab. One of the originals, in fact. When people sought to understand his carcinized cousins, they would come to him seeking knowledge. And he provided. Until the Ascension happened. Valentine had tried to keep up afterwards. No seer or mystic could reach them though. In the end the only thing he could do is wait, and hope.

When the Crabs had returned, Valentine had of course tried to contact them immediately, only to find the shell clamped tight over every single one. There was only one notice from the team sent to the masses.

"We are hurt. We need time. Please do not seek us."

He wanted to know more, but Valentine understood how people hurt. He sent his beloved a letter, and returned his attention to the other little things occupying his time. Had he known, he would have left it all behind to be by his side. But eighteen years had passed. His love had not dulled, and he knew the same was true for Pedro. But such a love also brings trust. He trusted his love to approach if he needed to, or stay away if the same was true.

The season started, and the Crabs started along with everyone else. It was difficult to see at first, but not something they were unused to. The flinches at the first ball, the way they were shaken. The way they carried themselves. Valentine saw them like a naked blade and a rusted sheath. They wanted nothing more than to be done with the world as a whole, but they could not return. And for that injustice, they carried their hatred all the way through the season.

It was not a season marked only by victory. It was not the most terrifying the Crabs had ever been. But they marched ever onwards, changed by what had occurred in their almost two decade absence. It was inspiring, in a way. It would have been more, if every empath that passed them did not break into hysterics. They moved as a tight-knit squad, like armor grown to stop knives.

Valentine still sent letters. He knew they were received. He did not get replies, but thought it was simply the pain and the schedule interfering. How he wished to be there. How he should have known.

The postseason started, and the Crabs were there. One victory. Three. Six. The Crabs did not let up. Nor did they let in. The Tacos were busy with their own games, but even in the times where they found themselves idle, no approach would be accepted. Normally a fellow Crab, even one of the past, would have been welcome with arms wide open. Now, an umpire stood outside the door to the Crab's lockers. A rare clause practically no team invoked.

Seeing them in person for the first time since their return felt like his heart took to the sky, only to fly too close to the sun and be brought crashing down.

Kennedy looked grizzled, Forrest was missing an arm, Luis' colors were so dull. Brock was hard edges, Finn was hunched and almost bestial. Silvaire's hands only ever seemed to leave her pistols when needed. Aldaberto's carcinization had run wild and 'gifted' him two additional twisted claws on one shoulder. And for Pedro...

Valentine almost thought it was Olliver at first, some kind of unannounced trade. But no, the 'shell' was different. Cruder than Olliver's. The time sealed away in the Big Leagues had made him unable to face the outside world, and that hurt Valentine's heart worse than any teamswap he had been forced to endure. Valentine understood that the Crabs were here to compete, heaven or hell be the outcome. And so, they did. The two teams clashed, desperate struggles each and all. No sense of amusement came from the Crabs as they played. No love for the splort or joy in their accomplishments. In the final two games, when the black hole hung above Al Pastor, pregnant with destructive ire, Valentine swore he could see it in their eyes like the red sun which haunted the Umpires at times.

Valentine Games played his heart out, partially because it was the only way to keep it from breaking. He pushed himself as hard as he could, because he could feel the terror beneath their shells. Back here again. The numbers creeping up. Valentine aims a foul at a fan with a Peanut effigy. It didn't help, the damage was done.

In their final, desperate inning, the Tacos failed the Crabs. The last out was hit, and each and every one of them stopped for a moment. Their heads turned to the sky, locked to the center of the black hole.

Valentine wondered if his friends would ever emerge from it's depths.


End file.
